


all that it was / all that it could be

by helenecixous



Category: Last Tango In Halifax
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Sharing a Bed, Smoking, anyway, this is probs the fluffiest thing i've ever written, where did the caroline elliot tag go omg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 20:40:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11192988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenecixous/pseuds/helenecixous
Summary: You hear the slow and quiet burning of the cigarette between her fingers, and you want to reach out to her, to run your fingers through her hair, to kiss her softly and to finally see what she tastes like, how she kisses. You want to know how she’d respond, whether she’d be hungry for it, for you, or whether she’d be reserved and shy and nice.





	all that it was / all that it could be

_ “Can I come over?” _

_ “Course.” _

_ “I shan’t stay long. I know it’s late.” _

_ “Don’t be daft. Drive safe. I’ll put kettle on.” _

 

_ “Thank you.” _

 

Caroline's grieving, you can tell that. Can see it from a mile off. You can see it in the way she walks and talks and holds herself, you can see it curling in her like smoke, setting fire to the marrow of her bones and smoldering there quietly. You want to ask her if it hurts as much as you think it must. She's grieving for her life, you know that. Her big house and stable relationships with John and Kate and Celia, she's grieving for her sons, for Flora, for Olga, and now she's out here in the middle of nowhere with a job she doesn't think she can tackle, with relationships that flicker on and off like a lightbulb in a storm, and she needs you. Of that you are certain; she needs you.

You fill up the kettle and flick it on to boil, scrubbing away the tiredness from your red rimmed eyes with your knuckles as your kitchen fills with the sounds of disturbed water. You lean on the counter, your arms crossed across your middle as you think of Caroline making her way over to yours in her Range Rover. You try to imagine how she’s feeling, what she’s wearing, whether her lips will be drawn tight in the way that you’ve come to recognise as a telltale sign of emotional…  _ strain.  _ Worrying about Caroline Elliot is a unique experience, and yet you find yourself doing it more and more - watching her when you think she’s not watching you, trying to suss out how she’s feeling and what she’s thinking and whether or not she’s careening headfirst into a depressive episode and trying to determine whether or not she’ll let you in, let you help. Not that you're the most helpful person by nature; but for her you're willing to try. The kettle clicks and you drag yourself from your thoughts and pour some tea, stirring thoughtfully for a few seconds before you take them both outside and sit down on the steps, playing with your lighter as you wait for her.

 

She apologises as she gets out of the car, apologises before the door has closed, before she’s locked the car, and you think she looks tired as she comes over to you and sits down beside you. You offer her a cigarette and she takes it, picks up her mug of tea and contemplates it for a second before she lights the fag and takes a long drag.

“Thank you,” she says softly, ashing next to her leg and looking at you in the light from the kitchen window.

“Stop it,” you murmur, taking a drag from your own cigarette and watching her hands, how she taps the mug she’s holding. Agitated, like she’s nervous. The smoke curls around her fingers and you smile to yourself, watch it reach her wrist before you look up at her face. “It’s no bother.”

“I know. I know you don’t really have much else to do.” The words are sharp and icy, but her tone is soft and lilting. Like she’s tired, like the bitterness will seep out in her words and bleed into the space between you no matter how much she does or doesn’t want it to.

You shrug, stretch out your legs and lean back on your hand, tilt your head up and watch the stars, watch the clouds move over them and blur them from view. “Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask.

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever it is that’s rattlin’ you.”

She eyes you, stares at you like she thinks that if she looks at you for long enough the conversation will dry up inside you and leave you silent. You meet her eyes and arch your eyebrows to let her know that there will be no such miracle, not today, and when she takes a drag from the cigarette her face lights up orange and you notice the clear blue of her eyes and the soft smudge of dusty pink lipstick on the filter.

“I’m just tired,” she says. “Wanted some company.”

Some company, as though she doesn’t have the whole community of queer women hanging on to their phones, hoping for a phone call, hoping for a summon so they can get into bed with her. Some company, as though she’s not been blowing off Olga for weeks now (you know this because at some point you’d exchanged numbers with her and she’s been texting you sporadically to complain about this Caroline shaped hole in her life). Some company, as though she’s really got nobody else to call on but you.

“Ah. Well, you’re welcome to stay the night,” you say, and then worry that that makes you sound too eager; too weird. “Or whatever you fancy.”

She nods, and you hear the slow and quiet burning of the cigarette between her fingers, and you want to reach out to her, to run your fingers through her hair, to kiss her softly and to finally see what she tastes like, how she kisses. You want to know how she’d respond, whether she’d be hungry for it, for you, or whether she’d be reserved and shy and nice.

“You’re blushing,” she says, and you blink away your thoughts.

“In another life, you were a copper,” you return. “Like, a detective. Or a sergeant or something.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep.” You flick the cigarette butt away from you and reach for another. “You were definitely the kind of bitch who never did as she was told. You probably had, like, a million enemies, and it was probably personal with all of ‘em.”

“I’m pleased that you think so highly of me,” she says dryly, and offers you her lighter. You lean forward, and she cups her hand around the flame and her eyes meet yours as you take a slow drag and thank her.

“Who’s to say I don’t?” you ask, exhaling up to the sky. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with havin’ enemies. I reckon you’d get into loads of fights for the fun of it.”

“The fun of it?”

You nod sagely, and it does something to your throat when she laughs, like it’s closing up and you struggle for breath and something witty to say. You come up blank, and just settle for watching her instead, watch the way she wraps her fingers around the mug she’s holding with both hands now, watch the steady rise and fall of her chest and the way the breeze disturbs her hair and makes her shiver.

“It’s a lovely night.”

“It is now,” you murmur, and busy yourself with finishing your tea so you don’t have to look at her. It’s funny, like sometimes looking at Caroline is looking into the very sun, like she’s all you can see and all you can think about and if you look at her for too long she’ll be burned into your retinas and then she’ll be all you see when you close your eyes as well. As if she’s not already occupied most of your thoughts, as if she’s not already picked up and moved in to your mind and heart and deeper than that; into your veins, your blood, your muscles, your bones, in to whatever it is that’s at your core - the very fibre of your being. You think that in some strange and gentle abstract way, you’ve managed to fall in love with her.

“Did you mean it?” she asks, and in the gloom you see that she’s smiling slightly, watching something that you can’t be bothered to stop looking at her for.

“Did I mean what? Probably.”

“About me stopping over?”

“Oh.” You blink at her and feel a small goofy smile spread over your face. “Yeah. Course I did. Wouldn’t ‘ave offered if I weren’t serious.”

“Thank you.”

Silence falls again, and neither of you mention the fact that she already has clothes at yours, already has a spare phone charger plugged into the wall and a pink toothbrush that sits next to yours in the pot. You’re suddenly breathlessly glad that Robbie had gone, glad in a way that you’d not really allowed yourself to feel before, because yes, sure, Raff and Ellie moved out with Calamity, and Celia and your dad also left, and yes, you’ve never been the fondest of being alone - you’re a serial dater, always have been - but if Robbie was here, or indeed anybody else, evenings like this probably wouldn’t happen. And instead of Caroline’s musky vanilla perfume sitting on your dresser, there’d be a bottle of Lynx Africa, or some other shit you really can’t stand.

You’d considered jumping back into the dating pool (Raff had tried to set you up with a Tinder profile, and you’d deleted it within twenty minutes of being  _ super liked  _ by a man with a picture of his dick as a profile picture.) You’d considered getting a girlfriend, trying your hand with the women again, but there’s been something stopping you. Something that stops you from flirting back with the cute barista in Costa, or from returning the calls from Laurie, that girl you’d fooled around with in school who’s apparently back in the area. And now you’re thinking about it, that  _ something  _ smells suspiciously like Caroline, and moments like this - moments that she is unspeakably beautiful in - and a certain unwillingness to give them up.

“Do you wanna watch some shit telly?” you hear yourself asking, and you’re pleased that she laughs again.

“It’s almost midnight,” she says. “The only thing that’ll be on right now is Babestation.”

“I did say  _ shit  _ telly. I’m up for a bit of that action,” you laugh, standing up and stretching, and trying not to look too obviously at her as she does the same. “I’m all about scantily clad ladies playing with a phone and jiggling their bits around.”

She laughs, and it’s a giddy sound, dripping with relief and an easy relaxation, and you know that she’s not laughed properly in weeks. “Alright,” she says, shaking her head at you. “Babestation it is.”

 

“So what’s with Olga?” you ask, kicking your shoes off and thanking the stars that your house is a little warmer than it usually is. “Olgs. Good ol’ Olgs.”

“Don’t call her that,” Caroline says, but you can hear the warmth in her tone, the way her words quaver, like she’s trying not to laugh. “Nothing’s  _ with  _ her.”

“Guess that’s the problem.” You throw yourself down on the sofa with no amount of grace, and you’re pleased when she sits down next to you, closer than you’d even hoped.

“Has she said anything?”

“She might’ve.” You’re flicking through the channels, confronted time and time again with that irritating little  _ broadcasting will resume at 6am  _ message. You eventually get to Babestation, and you glance at Caroline, watch the way her cheek twitches and she fights to keep her poker face intact. You’re being deliberately unhelpful, you know, but you don’t want to talk about Olga, you don’t know why you brought it up, when talking about Caroline’s ex girlfriends leaves a bad taste in your mouth that tastes a  _ lot  _ like jealousy.

To her credit, Caroline doesn’t push it. She seems to be bored with the topic, and for that you are endlessly grateful. She pulls her hair up into a messy ponytail, and frowns at the television. “I’ve never understood this,” she says. “Do people actually get off to this?”

“I s’pose,” you answer. “I’m not really sure either. I guess it’s better if you phone in, or whatever the fuck you’re supposed to do.”

You both lapse into silence and she watches the telly and you watch her, watch her visibly relax, and you’re glad that you can help in this way, that you get to be near her  _ and  _ make her feel better. And how fucking ridiculous is that, that you would become the kind of person who feels better by being able to help someone as posh as Caroline feel better. You’ve become the kind of person who actually cares about this beautiful mess of a human being, and it’s even worse that you would probably cut off your own leg if it meant you got to be that person for her forever.

“I’m tired,” she says, after about half an hour. “Do you mind if we…?”

You turn and look at her blankly, and then your brain decides to catch up and you gasp, nodding, covering your mouth to quell the smatter of uncontrollable giggles that happen when you’re this tired. “Sorry,” you say, reaching for the remote and shaking your head. “Thought you were, ah, proposin’ somethin’ entirely different for a minute there, Caroline.”

“Why, got something on your mind?” she asks as she stretches, and you  _ almost  _ nod. “Mm, whatever it is, can it wait until I’m a little better rested?”

“Sure,” you agree, cursing yourself and the relationship you have with her that seems to demand a constant supply of banter. How are you ever going to make a move on her (not that that would ever happen, but  _ how)  _ when all of the flirting that you both do is shrouded in eighty three layers of ‘banter’. As if you’re sixteen years old and back at school, and have to declare ‘no homo’ after each smile you share.

She smiles at you, and it takes you no time at all to lock up and turn the lights off and go up to bed with Caroline in tow, and she’s already tugging her shirt off before you’ve even got to the bedroom. You sit on the edge of the bed and undress and then fold yourself beneath the duvet, shivering just slightly as she joins you and scoots close. Her feet are cold against your legs, her breath warm against your shoulder, and you close your eyes and find it easier to drift off to sleep than it usually is.

You wake up two hours later, because Caroline’s attached herself to you. You’re facing each other, and she’s slung an arm around your waist and she’s pulled you so close that you’re almost flush against her. You swallow, want to wake her, but she mumbles something and pulls you closer and there’s some part of you that decides to just go with it. She manages to simultaneously work her leg between yours and slip her hand beneath your t shirt, and your breath catches. Her forehead is resting against yours and you feel her breath, slow and hot against your lips, and you close your eyes and will yourself to go to sleep with Caroline Elliot wrapped around you with seemingly no intentions to let you go, and idly you wonder whether she’ll be embarrassed if she wakes up like this.

 

“Gillian.” You can already tell that Caroline’s half asleep, she’s shit at mornings, and her voice is thick and heavy with sleep.  _ “Gillian.” _

“Mm, what?” you mumble, refusing to open your eyes.

“I want a cup of coffee.”

At this you crack one eye open to eye her in disdain. “You know where the fuckin’ kettle is,” you croak, and then clear your throat. “Make us one too, will you?”

She shoves you and you feel her slip out of bed, muttering to herself and undoubtedly shaking her head at your ineptitude as a host. You try to settle again, wrapping your arms around the pillow she’d been using and stretch out, inhaling the faint smell of her shampoo before you remember how you’d fallen asleep last night and a warmth spreads through you like fire. You feel yourself blushing and you sit up, opening your eyes and blinking owlishly in the cold morning light, and you stretch once more before you grab a hoodie and pull it on so you can go and find her.

She’s down in the kitchen, wearing your flannel dressing gown with the hole under one arm tied loosely around her waist. It used to belong to your dad, you’re pretty sure, and it’s the most comfortable thing you’ve ever owned. She turns, pushes a mug of coffee in your direction, and you see that she’s not wearing anything beneath it. Your stomach twists.

“Ta,” you mumble through a yawn, wrapping your hands gratefully around the hot china. “Wha’ time ‘s’it?”

“About six,” Caroline says, holding her mug and leaning against the counter, still facing you. “Sleep okay?”

“Mm,” you nod, taking a sip of coffee and turning to the window, looking out over the hills contemplatively. You’re so distracted by the rose pink of the sky and the smell of coffee and Caroline and your skin that’s remained bed-warmed that you jump slightly when you feel her come up behind you and place a hand on your hip. You look at her, and your heart practically stops when she presses her lips to the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder, and then because you don’t know what else to do you look back out of the window, chewing your lip as goosebumps erupt all over you and your mind races a million miles a minute to try and work out what in the  _ fuck  _ is going on.

She presses a kiss to your jawline and you risk a look at her, her hair tangled and her makeup a little smudged but mostly intact, her eyes wide and sleep addled and so,  _ so,  _ blue. You swallow as she traces your jawline with two fingers, gently tilts your head up, and with the hand that’s not holding your mug, you cup the back of her neck and gently, insistently, tug her hair. She leans in, and so do you, and you kiss each other, your bodies pressed together and two steaming mugs of fresh coffee between you. You kiss each other while the world wakes up, kiss each other in those moments between night and day, in those seconds before the day starts properly.

“Caroline-” you whisper as you break apart, and you look at the way she’s watching you, like she just wants to devour you, feel the way she’s only pulled away enough to  _ breathe, _ and you decide that words can wait. You pull her close to you again and press your lips firmly to hers, tasting coffee and toothpaste and you’re suddenly very regretful that you’d not thought to brush your teeth first, but she doesn’t seem to mind so much.

Again, you think that you love her as she twists her fingers into your hoodie and tugs it, but then you’re putting your coffee down so that you can push her to the sofa and hold her with both hands, and you figure that that’s a conversation for another day. 

**Author's Note:**

> title from spotlight - machine gun kelly


End file.
